


The Centre Cannot Hold

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Series: The Second Coming [3]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Amputation, Angst, Car Accidents, Gen, Graphic Description, Mentions of suicide of minor character, Permanent Injury, Serious Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 01:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13671489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: Jones and Diana and even Hughes were some of the best, most loyal friends he had. He would risk his life for them. But, Peter thought, as memories of Neal in the hospital came floating back to him—his skin a fevered artist's pallet, reds, purples and blues; Elizabeth’s hot tears at his neck, watery voice in his ear; sweat dampening his collar as he kneeled in the bathroom, the bitter, burning taste like a chemical in his throat and; violent shakes seizing his muscles--he would give up his life for Neal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Turning and turning in the widening gyre  
> The falcon cannot hear the falconer;  
> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;  
> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,  
> The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere  
> The ceremony of innocence is drowned;  
> The best lack all conviction, while the worst  
> Are full of passionate intensity.  
> . . . .  
> -The Second Coming, William Butler Yeats

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter could see Neal absentmindedly rubbing his leg with an open palm. His thumb trailed down beneath his knee, pressing tight circles into sore muscles. According to the doctors, he would probably have some pretty intense pain for quite a few months before it dwindled down to nothing or he would have small aches that would last a lifetime. Neal hadn’t made him privy as to which it was, and Peter wasn’t sure which was worse. Still, he noticed Neal taking pain pills every once in a while.

  
He had yet to say anything about it.

  
It was the longest Neal had sat still in a car since the crash. Actually, it was probably the longest he’d been locked inside a car since Peter had known him. Before prison, at least. Years. He couldn't help but continue to steal glances to the other side of the car, even if he continued to be called out on it.

  
“Are you staring again?”

 

Peter shook his head, even though he was fairly certain Neal couldn’t see that. He had his hat pulled down over his eyes. They'd left early from work, but hadn't stopped by either of their houses to change. Peter’s tie was lost somewhere in the backseat. “Nope.” He popped the _p_ , exaggerating so he wasn't lying.

  
Neal wasn't convinced. He never was. Still, his tone was carefully playful. It grated on Peter like everything else in the past year. “Uh-huh.”

  
Peter resisted the urge to tap his fingers along the steering wheel. He faked an easy tone. “Just admiring your hat. Is that a new one?”

  
He could hear the slight smirk in his partner's voice without having to look over at him again. “Didn’t you use that excuse last time?”

  
“No.”

  
“Yes, you did.”

  
“No, I didn’t.”

  
“ _Yes_ , you _did_ ,” Neal said, pronouncing each word separately, his tone overconfident and cocky. It sounded easy going, but Peter picked up on the hidden undercurrent of annoyance. Neal was more closed off now than he was when he was wearing an anklet. Instead he wore _Neal Caffrey_ like a character; he acted like he thought he was supposed to, like he always had. Peter wondered why he didn't just leave.

  
He was glad that he hadn't.

  
“Well, you haven’t answered me. Still don’t know if that’s a new hat.”

  
“It’s not, actually, but thanks for noticing, I suppose.”

  
“Mm-hm.”

Peter slowed the car down cautiously, sneaking a quick glance back to the passenger side, before coming to a complete stop at the light. He frowned, rubbed his eyes. It was getting late. They would have to stop at a hotel soon. Hopefully they'd both be able to sleep through the night. Peter knew he still suffered from nightmares. He wouldn't be surprised if Neal did, too.

  
“Light’s green.”

  
Frowning, he looked over at Neal, who still had his hat pulled down. The light was green again, just like he said. It was almost annoying.

  
“How do you _do_ that?” he demanded, pulling forward. It was a change of subject, not an apology, but Neal read it like one. His smile wasn't secretly bitter but it wasn't _genuine_.

  
In response, Neal tapped the side of his head and smiled. He let his hat fall off into his lap and blinked a few times, getting a bearing on his surroundings as he watched short buildings and houses go by.

  
“Where are we?”

  
“Small town. I can’t remember the name.” Peter yawned. “You see any hotels around here?”

  
No answer. Peter hadn't expected one. But after a few minutes, Neal spoke up, surprising him.

  
“There’s one that looks like it was inspired by Bates Motel.”

  
Peter furrowed his brow, frowning. “We’re not staying there.”

  
“I prefer the Stanley,” Neal agreed.

  
“Fancier,” Peter said dryly. His hands loosened on the steering wheel.

  
“Exactly.”

  
“I don’t think we’re gonna find something like that here.”

  
“I was kind of doubting it myself,” Neal said. “What’s the population here?”

  
“Two thousand? Less than?”

  
He frowned, searching out the window. “That might be the only hotel they have. _Motel,”_ he corrected himself.

  
“We are not staying at the Bates Motel,” Peter said firmly.

  
And yet . . . Neal was right. Peter didn’t want to think _as always_ , but. Well. As always.

  
That was the only motel they had.

  
“Are you sure we have to stay here?” Neal asked, staring in horror at the room.

  
Two skinny beds, absent of any headboards, with ratty, scratchy looking thin blankets on top of ugly, worn down sheets. The coloring on both was on odd, speckled mixture of grey and green, sort of like static on a TV. The walls were completely absent of any art.

  
The thin carpet was dark grey, with random areas looking worn down and scratchy, as if someone frayed it with a razor. The TV was old, small and boxy. Peter wasn't sure they would be able to see detail on it from their place by the beds.

  
The entire room was small, and even though there wasn't much there aside from the two beds, the nightstand between them, a small cushy chair in the corner and the TV setting atop a larger dresser, it was nearly crowded.

A small room in a small town. He missed the city.

  
“Cowboy up,” Peter said, putting on his game face.

  
Neal glanced over at him in irritable disgust. “Peter.”

  
“The closest town is twenty minutes, Neal, and it doesn’t even have an actual post office, let alone a hotel. The only other town is an hour away. In the opposite direction. It’s late. We’re both tired. Cowboy up.”

  
Neal scrunched his face up in distaste, but nodded bravely. He dropped the single suitcase he was carrying onto the floor by the closest bed. Standing balanced on his left leg for a second, he gently kicked the bed with his right. Peter wondered how it felt.

  
“Well. At least we know nothing can hide under the bed,” he teased, voice mocking like a child's. Peter could count on both hands the times that Neal had joked with him like a friend of his own volition in the past year. Three of them involved Elizabeth; two happened at the office, with Diana and Jones. He missed that tone. It sent sharp, heated stabs of nostalgia, guilt and relief through his chest. Each emotion was a shard of glass in his lungs, scraping down his throat and windpipe. Neal wasn't as young and as carefree as he once was. Peter knew that was partially his fault. But whenever he heard it again, he thought that maybe, they would be okay. “There is no under.”

  
“Yes, that’s very reassuring,” Peter sighed, fighting to keep his indulgent smile and guilt ridden memories out of his voice. He thought, maybe, he managed it.

  
He made his way over to the open bathroom door on the other side of the room and flicked on the light switch. The pale tiled floor looked clean, at least. The sink was small and old, a little rusted around the edges and it squeaked when the faucet turned. The water was clear and cold, but he wasn’t sure it would warm up after twenty seconds.

  
Everything was an ugly cream color. Even the shower curtain. He pulled it back and peered inside, grimacing. The walls were tan enough to clash horribly and it was so bad that even he noticed it. El would have gently but firmly suggested color pallets to the manager, he was sure. Hell, Neal might just con them all into hiring him as an interior designer—it wasn't a bad thought, but it would delay them. The two only had so much vacation time. Peter frowned, looking around the place again, wondering if Neal would even allow him to shower in here, or if he would deem it too insulting to his image. Then, he noticed something and his stomach hardened. _Dammit, he wanted a shower tonight._ They could go one day without one, he supposed.

  
There were also no handrails. Peter never asked Neal how he showered—for obvious reasons, it would have been weird—but he was pretty sure handrails would help a lot. He grimaced and shook his head. Maybe they could shower tomorrow, once they got there.

  
“Gross.”

  
He turned around to see Neal casually leaning up against the doorway on one shoulder. He was standing mostly on his right, toes of his other shoe digging into the floor, knee bent at an angle. It looked relaxed, but Peter wondered which leg was taking the brunt of his weight.

  
“No warm water, either.” He didn't mention the fact that it didn't have a handicapped rail. It didn't escape Neal's notice. “I think we can both live without showering for one night.” He pursed his lips, wanting to draw out more of Neal's earlier teasing. “We’d probably end up stabbed, anyway.”

  
“Bates Motel,” Neal said in a mocking, self-explanatory tone. It was off, but only just. Peter played along.

  
“Stop smirking. And don’t say _I told you so.”_

  
“Oh, I wasn’t going to. I have to stay here, too, y’know.” He smiled in an easy, self-deprecating manner. “Should be fun.”

  
Peter scoffed. “Oh, yeah. I feel like I should be taking pictures for evidence.”

  
“You wanna investigate?”

  
“Maybe in the morning, Detective Arbogast.”

  
Neal just smiled at him, shaking his head. “Dinner?”

  
“At this time of night?” Peter raised his eyebrows.

  
“Its nine, Peter. Do you really want to go to bed at nine?”

  
He wanted to say, _Its been a long day,_ or _I've been driving for hours_ , but something about the crinkles by Neal's shaded eyes stopped him. His eyes still had shadows underneath, like fingerprints smudged gently on one of his oil paintings. He didn't sleep much anymore, he realized. He didn't want to go to bed.

  
Peter wasn't sure how to describe the emotions he was experiencing or even if they were welcome or intrusive. His own mother and his wife were the only other people in his life who were capable of making Peter feel this confused. He loved his team, he did—Jones and Diana and even Hughes were some of the best, most loyal friends he had. He would risk his life for them. But, Peter thought, as memories of Neal in the hospital came floating back to him—his skin a fevered artist's pallet, reds, purples and blues; Elizabeth’s hot tears at his neck, watery voice in his ear; sweat dampening his collar as he kneeled in the bathroom, the bitter, burning taste like a chemical in his throat and; violent shakes seizing his muscles minutes after he'd signed the papers, allowing them to cut off Neal's leg while he was delirious and sick—he would _give up_ his life for Neal.

  
He wondered if it was his guilt or his love that made it so. He wondered how he would feel about his best friend if the crash had never happened; if it was a blessing— _he hated himself_ —or a curse— _he hated himself_. Before that, Neal hadn't had dinner with them for at least three, maybe four weeks. He hadn't had lunch with Peter in about as long. He hadn't even seen Elizabeth. That would have been bad enough, but then the crash happened, and the investigation and Peter learned more harsh truths about Neal than he ever thought existed. He knew Neal had lived many other lives but this was one he never expected. It was harrowing, looking at Neal, young and sick, thinking of him being younger and in just as much danger, still just a child. He hadn't felt so out of his depth, so helpless and afraid and angry, since El's kidnapping.

  
He didn’t want to—couldn’t afford to—make another mistake. A year had passed and Peter still felt as if he was living it every day, spent every day checking over his shoulder, watching Neal from the corner of his eyes, wondering how much time they had left until someone else found him or his father was released from prison. He wondered why Neal hadn't accepted the Marshall's offer of witness protection.

He wondered how he ever could.

  
Neal was watching him, he realized, a slight question in his eyes. He shook it off as weariness from the long drive. They both knew it wasn't, not entirely, but he wasn't called out for it. Not yet.

  
He supposed he could stay up a little later, even though they'd already eaten on the road. Maybe they could get coffee and dessert. “We're not staying out late,” Peter said, feeling like a father. His heart did something in his chest, but he couldn't tell what it was. “Its ten—we're in a new time zone and we both have to get up early tomorrow.”

  
Neal looked excited, like a young child about to go on an adventure. It was reminiscent of his old smile, before the crash, the kidnapping, the Nazi treasure. Their relationship had always been complicated, and he supposed it was less externally complicated than it had ever been. But they'd sacrificed a lot and they came out different for it. Neal had dawned his con artist's mask again, even around his friends. Peter carried a lot of guilt and anger.

  
“Give me five minutes,” Peter said, gently pushing his shoulder. Neal obliged, ducking out of the bathroom and dropping dramatically on the bed, as if to say, _Five minutes!_

  
Peter spent more than five minutes in the bathroom, he knew. After he was done actually using the bathroom, he texted El. At first, he said things were going good, they’d stopped for the night. Then, because it was El and because it was Neal, he expressed concern and doubts about what they were doing. He knew why they were there—he practically bullied Neal into agreeing—but he wasn't sure anymore if this was what they needed after all. But he was desperate and he wasn't about to give up.

  
Neal was sitting on the chair by the window, on the far side of the room. He glanced towards Peter as he walked out of the bathroom, shoving something in his bag in front of him. It took him a minute to realize what it was—the coded prison letter, the one that started all of this—and he pretended he didn't see, heading purposefully towards the door.

  
He knew Neal was trying to understand it. After all this time, he still didn't get it. He was content to bury his past with his daily life, most of the time. But it wasn't always easy and the car crash had dug up unanswered questions and faded memories. That was part of the reason they were on this road trip. Closure.

  
Peter was the other reason. Because even though he saw Neal almost every day, even though they weren't legally forced to see each other anymore, it still _felt_ forced. Even though they had dinner frequently, and they bantered and bickered easily, like old friends, he still missed Neal. It was a surface friendship. They weren't nearly as close as they used to be.

  
He told himself to shut up and focus on the present.

  
“Where are we going?”

  
Neal shrugged. “I saw a 24 hour café diner just off the main road,” he said, casually heading that way. Away from the car.

  
Peter hesitated. Even though he was loathing the idea of getting back in the car, the main road was probably about eight or nine blocks away. They used to walk a lot in New York, but after Neal's leg was amputated, Peter carefully went out of his way to not go too far. He knew Neal wouldn't break and that he was used to walking with a prosthetic but he was still afraid. Guilty and unwilling to see more consequences on Neal’s life than he had to.

  
“Come on, Peter. It's nice out.” It was. But he knew that was his partner’s polite way of gently pushing him forward, in the direction he wanted. Peter almost wished he wouldn't be so gentle about it. From the moment Neal woke up in the hospital, he was as perfect as ever. It was like nothing had happened.

Nodding stiffly, trying not to show his reluctant hesitance, he walked alongside Neal. They slowed only at crossings and once when Neal saw a dog—Pavlov, his owner said, with a grin that was promptly mirrored—and stopped to pet it. Peter smiled and shook his head fondly before dragging Neal back to his side.

  
The café was small—like everything else in town—and homey. The walls were peach, darker in dim lighting, and a tiny, blue-green candle was lit on each table, casting dancing shadows beside the booths. Out of habit, they sat in the corner, able to easily see the door and the layout of the place. A waitress in pale, creamy blue came out, dimples in her smile. Peter ordered a coffee, decaf, while Neal went for the pie.

  
“Come on, Peter, it’s the best pie in town,” he said, nodding towards a sign that said _The best pie in town!_ He couldn't tell, then, if Neal were simply acting or not. It'd gotten harder to recognize.

  
“Neal,” he said, long sufferingly, biting back excitement and residual weariness, “it’s probably the only pie in town.”

  
Neal grinned at him. “That would make it the best,” he insisted.

  
“Regardless of quality.”

  
“You're a pessimist.”

  
Peter smiled grimly, accidentally breaking eye contact. “Maybe,” he admitted. His voice lost the carefree nature they had, instead took on a quiet, reserved tone. He almost winced.

  
Neal cleared his throat. Apparently, he was as tired of dealing with it as Peter was. “Stop it,” he said quietly, as if he could. This time, Peter did wince. Even now, Neal could see right through him. “This was your idea, Peter.”

  
The waitress came over, setting an apple pie in front of Neal and a coffee mug in front of Peter. Maybe she noticed the tension in the air, because she left without asking if they needed anything. Maybe she was as tired as they were.

  
“I know.”

  
“What are you looking for?”

  
As if he were searching for an answer, Peter looked down at his coffee, watching the steam as it rose up towards his face. He took a small sip and grimaced, then set it back down and looked Neal in the eye.

“Us.”

  
“We're both right here.”

  
“It's not that simple.”

  
“It never has been!” Neal laughed slightly, shaking his head in pained exasperation. His voice was tired, amused and watery. Peter felt as if he were missing the point. Maybe he was.

  
Peter wasn't sure what to say, so he said nothing. Eventually, the anxiety in the air dispersed. It was replaced with something he couldn't identify. He finished his coffee as Neal finished his pie. He wasn't sure about the pricing but laid a twenty on the table at the same time Neal did. Neither mentioned it. It wasn't important.

  
The walk back was mostly quiet. Peter cleared his throat. He hated to bring back the stiffness from their earlier conversation, but he needed to talk. Neither had had a serious conversation outside of work since the kidnapping. They were avoiding each other. This trip was supposed to fix that, without outside influences. _Elizabeth. Mozzie. June. Jones. Diana. Sara. Ellen._

  
Besides, this was something he needed to know.

  
“Why did you never leave? After your sentence was commuted. You could have gone anywhere.”

  
He could see Neal casually shrug one shoulder out of the corner of his eye, but otherwise he didn't acknowledge the question. Peter held his breath for a full minute until he realized Neal wasn't going to answer him. He realized, with agonizing clarity, that just because Neal hadn't ran _yet_ , didn't mean he wouldn't.

  
Maybe he was biding his time.

  
They made it back to the hotel, still silent and exhausted. Peter opened the door with his key. He sat on the bed, idly flipping through channels as Neal brushed his teeth. He came back out, nodded slightly at Peter and then immediately started getting undressed for bed. Gritting his teeth, Peter shut the tv off. He grabbed his own change of clothes and carried them into the bathroom to change into sweatpants out of sight. He texted El as he brushed his teeth, sitting on the edge of the tub.

  
_I miss you. Love you, hon._

  
When he was finished, Peter shut the lights off and opened the door. The room was dark already; Neal had turned the lamp off and climbed into bed. He squinted in the dark, feeling his way into his own bed and underneath the covers. He contemplated messing around on his laptop, but it was late. He was tired. Instead, he settled in deeper beneath the blankets and folded his arms up underneath his head. He stared at the ceiling, trying not to think of how much he missed El. He always hated sleeping without her. Usually Satchmo’s calming presence was curled up on the edge of the bed with him. _Maybe they should have brought him along,_ Peter thought wryly. _They could use someone unbiased._

  
He nearly jumped when a voice startled him. Blood rushed in his ears as his heart pounded and he shook his head at himself, embarrassed and annoyed.

  
“I thought about,” Neal said quietly, as if no time had passed since he'd been questioned earlier. Peter closed his eyes, told himself to breath. His jaw hurt. “Mozzie never even tried to convince me, afterwards. I told him we should take a vacation, see the world, reacquaint ourselves with other cultures.”

  
He tried not to think that if Neal had taken a vacation, he might not have ever come back to New York, to Peter. Even if he intended to—he knew Neal and running was just too easy. Especially when it was justified, like when he was eighteen and betrayed.

  
Instead, he was in his mid-thirties and betrayed.

  
“He refused. He's never done that before.”

  
Peter wanted to say, _Maybe he knew you needed your friend_ s or _I'm sorry_ or _Thank you._

  
He didn't. He closed his eyes and focused on steadying, then slowing, his breathing. He was on the edge of conciousness when Neal spoke again. He almost smiled.

  
_“Besides. New York is my home.”_


	2. Chapter 2

They stood, side by side, at the headstone of Neal’s mother's grave. Somewhere in this cemetery was Neal’s own grave. The marshals had faked his death soon after Danny Brooks ran away from Witness Protection, effectively ensuring he never return. His mother had buried an empty coffin.

  
Peter wondered if Neal wanted to be buried here, with his past or in New York, with his friends. He shuddered at the thought of Neal dying. Memories of the car crash and moments immediately following it almost swallowed his conscious whole. He bit his lip, forcing himself here, now.

  
Neal had brought a bundle of flowering lilac branches. It was an unusual choice, especially for the season, but apparently it had been Maggie Brooks' favorite. Her husband had some on the windowsill of the kitchen, when they visited. He kneeled down, laid them aside the grave and stood back up again, still staring at the engraved stone.

  
Peter’s heart clenched. He couldn't help but feel guilty. He knew it wasn't his fault—Neal's mother had killed herself years ago.

  
But he had been the one who brought Kramer in, in the first place. And he'd recognized Neal during that first meeting, a spitting image of his father. He came back, digging around Neal's prison life. Peter didn't know, at the time, what he had been searching for. He hadn't taken the threat seriously enough.  
Kramer's team had cracked the code Neal used in most of his prison letters. Diana, searching for something criminal, had glanced over the one sent by Kate—apparently, written by Ellen—that had informed him of his mother's death. The letter said that they had things of hers that Maggie Brooks wanted him to have—items, apparently, that used to be his father's. She had documents and other letters, an old badge and a flag she wanted him to have, to help him understand why she had lied. Whenever he was released from prison, they would be his to do with as he pleased.

  
That was all Kramer needed. Any potential evidence was a threat to him. A few days later and the undercover case Neal was working blew up. The car's breaks stopped working in the middle of speeding traffic. They were the center of a pile up. Peter and everyone else waited anxiously as hours had passed and they were only just getting Neal, unconcious and bloodied, out of the car. Almost a week had passed before Neal woke up from fevered dreams, regained his coherency. But the moment he woke, he was off. Peter brushed it off as trauma.

  
They were still looking at Briggs, the partner of the man accused of security fraud and attempted murder, as a suspect, then. It took Mozzie (and Neal) two weeks to piece together all the evidence, explain Neal’s past and accuse Phillip Kramer. It took Peter two days to believe it.

  
“I'm sorry.”

  
Neal glanced towards him. With where they were, what they were doing, it would have been easy to assume he meant his mother's death. But Neal didn't misinterpret it.

  
“It wasn't your fault.”

  
Peter swallowed his anger. Kramer had been his mentor. “Yes, it was. I asked him to come.”

  
Neal looked away. “You couldn't have known.”

  
“You told me. Even before anything, you knew he was up to something. We both knew you were in danger.”

  
“You had no reason to believe me. I never gave you the details.”

  
_I never gave you the details._ Not, _We never knew the details._ Peter gritted his teeth and trudged on.

  
“I shouldn't have brushed it off. It was _your life.”_

  
“Instead, it was only my leg,” he quipped _._

  
Peter threw his hands up in the air, turned in an angry half-circle before turning back. He didn't know when he started crying, but hot tears streamed down his face, closed his throat. _“Don't,”_ he snarled, choking, “don't joke about that.”

  
Neal scowled back, face contorted in fury. It was a foreign emotion on his partner but it was long coming. This was what he'd been waiting for.

  
“What you want me to say, Peter?”

  
“Something! Anything! When you woke up in the hospital, nothing happened! We were all expecting you to freak out, cry or be angry, but it never happened!”

  
“I lost my _leg!”_

  
“I know,” Peter snapped. “And it was like it never happened. The moment your fever broke, you were joking around with Jones, flirting with Diana and her girlfriend! And then you tell us your dad was a murderer, a dirty cop, and you were put into witness protection when you were three, and that was why someone—why Kramer—was trying to kill you! Because they knew each other on the force and they were both dirty. You knew the minute he started digging, didn't you? You found out who he was. You didn't tell us.”

  
“I have tried,” Neal said, tears now running down his face, too, “my whole goddamn adult life to run away from here. I killed Danny Brooks when I was eighteen. I've committed crimes, and maybe I should be in prison, but I don't deserve to pay for my father’s.”

  
“You don't,” Peter agreed, panting. He was desperate, pleading. He was afraid of whatever truth Neal was still hiding. He hated that Neal was still hiding. “Why the hell didn't you tell us? We could have prevented this.”

  
“I was afraid,” he snapped. Peter breathed a sigh of relief, but the anger and fear kept building in him. _Afraid of what?_ “Why aren't you mad at me?”

  
“I am! Goddamit, Neal. Why the _hell_ do you think I've been yelling at you in the middle of a fucking cemetery?”

  
Neal choked on a laugh. He shook his head, still crying, fists still curled in anger. He sat down heavily on the grass, practically falling on his ass. He was sobbing, laughing hysterically, leaning up against his mother's headstone. Peter fell next to him, crying just as hard.

  
“I'm sorry,” he whispered. He leaned against the stone, hot enough in the summer sun to burn through his shirt. He didn't move away from it. Neither did Neal. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”

  
Eventually, Neal stopped laughing. He even stopped crying, though it took longer. After his litany of apologies, Peter stayed silent through it all. He pressed his shoulder against Neal's, breathing a sigh of relief when Neal leaned back. Maybe this stupid trip was what they needed after all.

  
“You know we're not the only ones in the cemetery, right?” Neal asked. His voice was weak, croaky. He spoke in a monotone, tone never raising or lowering with emotion. Peter closed his eyes.

  
“Yeah.”

  
“We look like idiots.”

  
Peter hummed.

  
“Someone's going to call the cops on us.”

  
“Let them,” he said. They wouldn't, or they would have by now. Neal knew that. “We work for the FBI.”

  
“Hughes will be pissed.”

  
Peter waved his hand in dismissal. “He'll get over it.”

  
Neal laughed again. The sound was watery, but more relieved than choking and hysterical, like earlier. They were both quiet for a few minutes. Peter was contemplating weather or not he wanted to ask Neal again why he hadn't told anyone how dangerous Kramer was. It couldn't have been to protect his mother. He had nothing left in St. Lois. What else was he afraid of—for? Ellen? For some reason, it didn't feel right. But Neal started talking before he did.

  
“I still remember it, you know,” he said quietly. His voice was low and shaking, but he was calm. Peter opened his eyes to see Neal staring out in the distance, eyes haunted. “The crash.”

  
“I still have nightmares,” Peter admitted, trying to match Neal's tone.

  
“So do I.” Minutes passed and Peter waited to see if Neal would continue. He pressed his hand flat against the shiny, black stone, but didn't visibly react to the pain except for exhaling faster. When he pulled back, his palm was flushed pink and too warm to the touch. “It was so hot. The air conditioning broke, when we were hit. So did the windows and windshield, but not enough. It was suffocating.”

  
“The car was like an oven,” Peter said. For all the times that he'd imagined it, imagined himself next to Neal, the temperature was something he never thought of. He wondered why he hadn't.

  
“Yeah,” Neal said. “It smelled disgusting.”

  
Peter didn't want to know. He asked, anyway. “What did?”

  
Neal leaned his back, closing his eyes. He shrugged. Peter continued watching him. “Blood. Vomit. Urine. Shit. I couldn't breathe,” he whispered. Peter's jaw clenched. “Johnson was dead. He was staring at me. His eyes were glassy. I couldn't reach out to close them. I couldn't look away.”

  
Peter wanted to say, I'm sorry, but Neal had heard enough of that, even if Peter hadn't said it enough. “I'm surprised you were even conscious,” he admitted. Neal's list of injuries could have filled a page.

  
“On and off. I woke up sometime after the crash.” Peter nodded. “I passed out shortly after the paramedics came. All I remember is them asking me questions, trying to keep me awake. It didn't work.”

  
_Good_ , Peter thought. With the way the car was positioned and damaged, they'd had to use the Jaws of Life to get to Neal. They couldn't move Johnson, though, and the dead man had his legs removed much like Neal's right one had been. He doubted it was as clean of a process. Hughes never allowed him to view the scene photos. Peter was eternally grateful and inexplicably annoyed.  
Silence passed between them. Peter didn't think that was all that Neal could say, but maybe that was all he wanted to say. At least they were speaking. Peter had waited a year for this.

  
“Do you blame me?” he asked quietly. He studied the side of Neal's face as his friend stared ahead. Phantom bruises from the past, looking soft like a gentle watercolor portrait, pressed into his skin. They littered his cheek, jawline, brushed into his hairline, trailed down his neck. With a blink, they faded away. Some things would never.

  
“You blame yourself,” Neal said, still not looking at him.

  
“That's not what I asked.”

  
To his surprise, they were both calm. Whenever he posed the question to Elizabeth, he was always yelling, heart beating hard and fast, breath struggling against him. Now, Peter's heartbeat didn't even waver from its steady rhythm. Breath came easy. He wasn't afraid of the answer.

  
Maybe they were both too exhausted to feel anything.

  
Neal's voice was a breath of a whisper, so soft it almost didn't exist. “Yes.” He cleared his throat, spoke a little louder. “I'm trying not to. I'm trying, Peter.”

  
“Me too,” Peter answered quietly. “It's hard.”

  
“It is,” Neal said. “I blame myself, too.”

  
Peter shifted uncomfortably. This was so _wrong_. He hated that they were there.

  
“You shouldn't.”

  
“Maybe you should.”

  
_I didn't say that I don't._ “This started when you were three.”

  
Neal didn't answer him. Ages passed. Another question was fighting for survival on Peter's lips, but Neal interrupted.

  
“Sometimes, I think I never should have left WitSec,” he said. “I could have stayed here, in St. Louis. Did you know I wanted to become a cop?”

  
Peter blinked. “No,” he said, surprise bleeding through. “You never told me.”

  
“I did. I grew up with stories of my dad dying a hero, saving lives. I wanted to be just like him. Ellen taught me how to use a gun. I was good at it.”

  
“Who taught you how to paint?”

  
“I did. I broke my wrist and two fingers when I was six. Mom and the doctors said drawing would help, after the cast came off. For my birthday, Ellen bought me a blank sketchbook and some pencils. She took me to the art museum. I remember trying to copy my favorites.”

  
“Your first forgeries,” Peter said.

  
Neal smiled. “Yeah.” His lips twitched, the ends turning down, slightly. “Maybe I always would have ended up here. Maybe I would have been Danny Brooks, convicted of bond forgery instead of Neal Caffrey.”

  
Maybe his mother would have visited him in prison. Maybe Kramer would have found Neal's family earlier, through the Brooks name.

  
“I don't know, kid.” He sighed. “Neal?”

  
“Hmm?”

  
“What were you afraid of?”

  
Neal stiffened. It wasn't enough to be noticeable, but Peter could feel the hardness of his muscles from where their shoulders still touched. He slumped up against Neal more, putting weight on him as if to reassure him.

  
“It was just after Keller kidnapped El—that was my fault.”

  
Peter drew in a slow gasp. “Did you think Kramer would use us against you?”

  
“No. You meant something to him. He would never.”

  
“Then—”

  
“I didn't want to deal with it,” Neal said. “I couldn't run—I always run—but I could avoid it. I didn't want to deal with the fallout. He was your mentor. You'd known him for years—you looked up to him.”

  
Anger and pain washed through him like electricity. Peter jerked away from Neal, leaned forward and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You were trying to protect me.”

  
“I was trying to protect myself,” Neal claimed. It sounded hollow.

  
“You risked your life,” he snapped.

  
“Peter. That's nothing new.” Peter gasped, gritting his teeth. He hated the truth of that statement. “Besides. I underestimated him. I didn't see this coming.”

  
“And if you had?” When Neal didn't answer, Peter turned to him, removing his hands from his eyes. He saw fireworks. “Neal!”

  
“I would have run,” he admitted, looking pained, as if it were the wrong answer. It was. Peter wished he'd said he would have asked for help. More than that, he'd wished Neal were safe. He hated the bloodied nightmares that left him gasping at night. He would have rather been betrayed by Neal than have Neal on the verge of death.

  
“I wish you had.” It was meant to be a confession. It sounded like an accusation. For a split second, Neal looked hurt. “I wish you hadn't been in that car crash. I wish you hadn't been hurt. I wish you were never so sick and injured that they'd had to—I wish you still had your leg. And—"

  
“Peter,” Neal said. There were more tears in his eyes, but he looked almost amused. Worried and exhausted, but there were traces of humor in his face. “I'm not a genie.”

  
Now, Peter was the one laughing hysterically as he cried. He shook his head, collapsing back against Neal's side. Neal put his arm around him, talked, but Peter couldn't make it out. If it were more jokes, he didn't want to hear them.

  
“I hate you,” he choked. He didn’t.

  
“Get in line. Take a ticket.”

  
“Mozzie would kill me.” He wiped at his face.

  
“Elizabeth would never let him.”

  
Peter accepted that with a nod. He sniffed, closed his eyes. “What now?”

  
Neal shifted. “I don't know. Paul said we could stay there. Everything is the same, though. They married the same year that I ran away. The house still looks like it did when I was eighteen. It's like Paul's never been there, Mom never left.”

Peter nodded. Neal's stepfather and his mother had even left Neal’s old bedroom untouched. It was like walking back in time. When they'd visited and Peter had broken away to explore, he stumbled by Neal's room. The dark blue bed was unmade. There was an easel, on the other side of the room, with a half finished canvas setting on it. Textbooks sat on the desk, along with what looked to be homework. It was as if they'd expected Neal to come walking back, reclaim his old bedroom, his old life. It felt hallucinatory. It was a memory that wasn't his. He wondered if the whole house felt like that to Neal.

  
“We'll get a hotel,” he assured him, quietly. Neal hummed, as if to say thanks. “Do you want to get shitfaced with me? We can buy out a liquor store.”

  
“Fuck, yes,” Neal breathed.

  
They both fought for five minutes to control their laughter. Peter felt as if he were losing his mind. He thought that, aside from Elizabeth, there was no one else he'd rather go mad with.

  
“Peter?”

  
Peter struggled to get off the ground. “Yeah?”

  
“Thank you,” Neal said. He got to his own feet, then reached out a hand towards Peter.

  
There was still a lot of shit between them. Peter wasn't under the illusion that one afternoon had fixed a year's worth of issues. But it was a start. They were talking again. They would get there and fight for each other even when they fought with each other.

  
Neal was his best friend. He was worth it.

  
“You're welcome.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys! I hope you like this. Please let me know what you think in the comments!
> 
> Update: someome asked me if I planned on writing more. I looked through my older notes since I wasn't sure. I've added a little hospital prequel--please check it out. :)  
> Thanks guys!


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